


the second time

by vinylroad



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Abortion, F/M, Second person POV, Unplanned Pregnancy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-17
Updated: 2019-11-17
Packaged: 2021-02-08 04:40:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,760
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21470209
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vinylroad/pseuds/vinylroad
Summary: The first time Dean Winchester thinks he gets you pregnant is actually the second time he does.You’re twenty-two the first time.  You book your Planned Parenthood appointment after taking three home pregnancy tests.  You take a few days off work and ask Roberta, the woman who works reception, to drive you there.  You don’t really even know her that well, but when she smiles, she reminds you of your mother.  Crowsfeet in the corners of her eyes, silver streaked through her hair.When she takes you home after, she makes you jasmine tea and tells you about the time she did it because they just couldn’t afford four.  She didn’t tell him either.You don’t regret it for a moment.
Relationships: Dean Winchester/Original Female Character(s)
Kudos: 28





	the second time

**Author's Note:**

> Importing all my livejournal works. First posted to Livejournal on July 17th, 2007.

The first time Dean Winchester thinks he gets you pregnant is actually the _second_ time he does.

You’re twenty-two the first time. You book your Planned Parenthood appointment after taking three home pregnancy tests. You take a few days off work and ask Roberta, the woman who works reception, to drive you there. You don’t really even know her that well, but when she smiles, she reminds you of your mother. Crowsfeet in the corners of her eyes, silver streaked through her hair.

When she takes you home after, she makes you jasmine tea and tells you about the time she did it because they just couldn’t afford four. She didn’t tell him either.

You don’t regret it for a moment.  
  
  
  


  
  
You meet him through your roommate Tessa. You and Tessa are both in Durham finishing up your final year at Duke. You’re doing a degree in biology and you’re supposed to be premed, but you’re starting to question the practicality of being a premed student that can’t stand the sight of blood. Or sick people, really.

Tessa’s telling you about some guy named Dean while you begrudgingly make up the sofa bed. She does this all the time; your small apartment is practically a revolving door of gruff men (and sometimes women) who are ‘_friends of the family_’. You’d be annoyed, but you spend most of your time in the library anyway.

“So fucking hot Livia,” she says with a dramatic sigh, “I’d fuck him, but he won’t come near me.”

You don’t ask why.

He’s so _pretty_.

Normally you don’t really go for that sort of thing. Your last boyfriend was a gigantic nerd, glasses and all; personally, you wouldn’t have been surprised if he owned a pocket protector or two. Tessa would make comments like, _What the hell Liv, he’s a fucking **nerdlinger**_. But when he started talking about biological fitness and heterozygote advantage, you’d feel yourself warm between the thighs.

It only got worse after you broke up - suddenly you were turned on by anything and everything even remotely geeky. Like the time at Walmart in the aisle with the graphing calculators and protractors, or at the library in the linear physics section. When you caught Tessa watching Bill Nye one day, you had to excuse yourself to go to your room to take care of yourself _down there_.

So when Dean Winchester walks into your apartment, bowlegged strut with leather jacket collar popped, you are surprised at how fast you just _cream_. When he says hi, you can imagine that gravely voice in your ear whispering, _Come on, fuck me… such a hot little cunt. So tight, so tight._ And you have to excuse yourself.

You can tell immediately why Tessa likes him so much. He’s definitely her type – the hot-and-he-knows-it type that usually can’t shut up about himself. You went out with one your freshman year and you decided quickly that one was enough for you. No dirty talk, just grunts and huffing and wobbly words when they come. _Booooooring._

And as much as you’d like to think he’s interested in you, those types usually aren’t. You’re sweet looking enough, long black hair with cool pale skin, but you’ve got an extra pound or twenty lingering on your hips. You have glasses and you like jeans and t-shirts, not skirts and high heels. You pretend it doesn’t hurt when Tessa says, “Jesus, you could be so pretty if you tried, Liv.” Because it does. A _lot_.

When you’ve managed to calm yourself down, you walk back into the living room where Tessa has practically invited herself into his lap.

“So, how’s your dad? Oh, and Sam! My dad’s still in Oregon, but he’s thinking of doing some hunting down south in the spring.”

You’re struck by how blatant she is; Tessa’s always been a cool one around the boys, easy flirting, feigning indifference, a rope-a-dope approach to snagging her catch. But this, this is just so… un-Tessa like. She’s blathering like some teenager trying to score with the hot college boy. And you’re way more amused than you should be. Because the self-declared Queen of Scores is striking out – big time. And boy, does she know it.

She looks humiliated when she slinks to the door, yammering on about having to go get some books from the library. Like she’s ever studied a day in her life – she might as well have casually mentioned she planned to blast to the moon for some rocks.

He looks appreciative when you show him to the sofa bed. But the way he’s looking at _you_ makes you feel self-conscious and you cross your hands over your chest.

“How long are you going to be here?”

He shrugs and says, “A couple days.”

“How do you know Tessa again?”

He licks his lips. “Oh, our dads know each other. They were roommates back in college.”

You don’t tell him that Tessa told you they met in the Marines. And that her father never went to college.

You’re fucking _furious_ when Tessa doesn’t come back, just a quick drunken call with loud, indistinguishable music in the background. You know that it’s an attempt at resuscitating her broken self-esteem and that by the time the night is over, she’ll have fucked a varsity basketball player or two. She’ll slink back home at seven or eight in the morning, make herself breakfast and tell you about how the guy asked if he could fuck her in the ass.

But this is _her _damn guest and you’re stuck playing babysitter, which doesn’t bug you as much as the fact that it’s so fucking _awkward_. He just sits at the kitchen table with you, staring at you while you’re trying to study. It’s hard enough to focus without this shit. Between his eyes and the detailed description of the function of the endoplasmic reticulum that you’re reading, you feel like you’re going to soak the kitchen chair. You should have just gone to the library and you wonder for a brief second why you didn’t, like you didn’t already know the answer.

“Do. You. Mind?”

Fucker _smirks_.

_Smug bastard_. But you definitely start to feel warmth really start to pool between your thighs, like he just recited the chemical makeup of sugar. _C6H12O6._

“What’s your problem?” Boy, you are fooling _no one_. You reach up to pull off your glasses, but you only get them part of the way down your nose before his hand reaches up and grips yours.

“No. Leave ‘em on.”

And you feel your thighs _twitch_, aching and throbbing between.

When he stands up, still holding your arm, you follow out of reflex. He backs you up against the wall. His pelvis is flush on yours and he’s hard as a rock. A predatory grin spreads on his face when your eyes widen.

“Do you…? Because if you don’t, I’ll stop now.”

You don’t say a damn thing, just make a wheezing noise while you twitch your nose to try and keep your glasses on.

You don’t know him. At all. Don’t know a damn thing about him other than the fact that his name is Dean and he makes you wetter than an ocean.

When he leans down to kiss your nipples through your shirt, you think that’s enough.

He has a **_dirty_** mouth. You are so happy you could scream. Part of you wonders what kind of women he’s used to if this is the kind of language he uses while trying to bed strangers. You think about for a moment, but in the end, you don’t really care.

_I’m gonna fuck you. In the kitchen. You’d like that, wouldn’t you? Gonna bend you over and fuck you next to the fridge._

He’s got you up against the kitchen counter, face inches from the pine cupboards that you always thought were so ugly, bent at the hips. Your glasses tumble off, hitting the cheap linoleum counter. He’s pressed up against you hard, your body forced down, shoving your chest against the random objects that litter the counter. You start to wish that you had put the potato masher away after using it.

Pinned by his hips, you feel his hands try to reach into the small space between the counter and your pelvis to undo your jeans. He snatches them away, holding both of your wrists with one hand as he tries to undo your pants with the other.

_Nu-uh. ** I** get to do this. Don’t worry, I’ll think of something you can do with your hands later._

He lets go of your wrists as he pulls your pants down around your knees.

You almost trip when he spins you around and forces you face down on the kitchen table. Your jeans are still only half-way down your legs when he rips your panties down, staring at you spread in front of him.

_Jesus, you’re fucking wet. You’re practically dripping. That’s so fucking hot._

Oh Jesus. You’re almost there.

_I’m gonna fuck you so hard you’re gonna call me daddy._

You’re _done_.

You just tremble and shudder, falling limp against the table.

“Holy _shit_, did you just…”

You are _mortified_.

“Oh _GOD_.”

You turn your head and look back and he’s looking fucking _pleased_ with himself - like he just discovered the cure for cancer or something. You feel like telling him that graphing calculators can get you halfway there, so he shouldn’t be so damn cocky, but all you want is for him to fuck you. So instead you grip the table with steely vice and say, “Well, are you gonna fuck me or what?”

And he does. Hard. The entire time, he’s moaning dirty, _dirty_ things that just to get you off. .

Later, when you ask why, stuttering like a moron, embarrassed that you asked the question, he just says, _Because the quiet ones are wildcats_. And you blush.

When you tell Tessa the next morning, she pretends that she’s ok with it, but you see her juice her oranges extra aggressively while she makes breakfast. You don’t have the heart to tell her the bruise on your breast that she commented on earlier came from the juicer.

  
  


That’s the way it starts. You don’t ask him for his number and he doesn’t ask for yours. You’re plenty happy letting this be a one time thing. While you think he’s gorgeous, there’s something about him that screams _Danger!_

But then he shows up a few weeks later while Tessa’s in Myrtle Beach. And this time, you fuck in the living room, on your knees, bent over the second hand coffee table, one of your bare breasts pressed up vulgarly against the glass panel in the table.

And in the shower.

And on the kitchen counter. Again.

And then you finally decide to make it to a bed. You do it twice there.

There pretty much isn’t a single surface in your apartment that you haven’t had sex on. You decide before the weekend is over that you’re not going to tell Tessa that you did it on her bed. Instead, you wash her sheets with Tide and lemon juice and hope that she doesn’t notice the dent in the wall.

It doesn’t stop after that either. While you wouldn’t call it a regular thing, he stops by more often. And you still fuck him – even after you start seeing Ben, the tall chemistry grad student you meet at Tessa’s basketball game. You wonder if Dean knows; if he questions who the large sneakers tucked against your wall belong to. You wonder if he cares.

Either way, he still fucks you.

And you need it. _Need it_. You’ve never had a particularly addictive personality, but you feel yourself going through withdrawal when he visits less frequently, spends weeks away doing God knows what, only to come back and spread you open on the kitchen table. You feel the need slowly disappear when he leans over you, whispering words that would make a porn star blush, only to be replaced by an entirely different _need_.

It starts spilling over into your other relationships. You never let your boyfriend stay the night. Although you try to convince yourself that it’s because you just don’t like sharing a bed, the truth is that you don’t want him there just in case Dean shows up. You think that’s kinda pathetic; you think you should feel guilty, but you don’t. You just tell him that you can’t sleep with his snoring and close the subject.

When Dean does show up, you don’t talk about your boyfriend and he doesn’t talk about whatever it is that has him so riled up, so tense that all he wants to do is fuck, hard and unforgiving. But that’s just the way you like it. You don’t really get hot at thoughts of test tubes or bunsen burners anymore, just his fingers and his mouth – and the words that come out of it. All the talking is done in bed, the whispers of, _You’re so wet, so wet for me aren’t you? Is this for me?_ and then silence when it’s done. You wonder if he’s spoken more than a few sentences to you that don’t include the word _fuck, wet, suck, _or _cunt._

And even if he doesn’t show up, there’s always the chance that he’ll call. You keep the cordless phone next to your bed at night, just in case.

_Don’t touch yourself_, he’ll say, a gruff laugh as you moan with what you think is irritation, but what might be anticipation. _Don’t worry, I’m gonna get you off. You’re not going to need your hands._

And he does. Squeeze your thighs together as you shudder and come, listen to his pleased breathy smile on the other end of the phone. Sometimes you’ll cheat – tell him that you’re not when you really are. Slide your fingers inside yourself and think about when he does it, when his tongue is there too.

When you start to talk, ready to get him off, he tells you that it's ok- like the idea of you getting off from his words is enough to get him off. And that’s enough to make you come again.

When your father dies, you don’t expect him to show up. But you’re still sad when he doesn’t, which feels _weird_. Ben coddles you for weeks, which drives you up the fucking wall. But he also helps with the funeral arrangements, so you forgive him. You like Ben; he’s a sweet guy and you feel like there’s something wrong with you for not appreciating what you have.

But when you’re sleeping in your bed, you think about him. Dean. Doesn’t say sorry, doesn’t ask please, just takes you.

You just want someone that’s not going to ask you if you’re ok, that isn’t going to placate you with fake smiles and quick, empty hugs. It’s sad that the relationship you have with Dean is the most honest one that you have with anyone. No _I love you_ crap or fake interest in hobbies or family. Just fucking, stripped bare and guilt free.

Tessa moves to Portland after graduation to date a boy she meets on the internet. You miss her far more than you will ever admit to yourself. Although she had started giving you dirty looks and questions of _Why do you keep letting him use you like this?, _you miss her climbing next you on the couch with popcorn and a bag of Skittles to watch _Breakfast at Tiffany’s_. You miss her inappropriate comments when you eat bananas. You’re also glad your father left you some money, because you’re suddenly short a roommate in a two bedroom apartment. Although you work part-time at a local bank and at the women’s bookstore just off-campus, you’re barely making ends meet.

You get into a few med schools, but only your safety schools; you tell yourself that at least you got in somewhere, that you don’t mind that you didn’t get into Johns Hopkins and that the University of Utah and the University of Kansas are good schools too. But the truth is that you don’t want to go to any of them; the only reason you applied to medical school was because your father always said that he wanted to call you Dr. Murphy. Because in the end, you don’t do Mormons and you don’t do mountains or cornfields. You realize there are a lot of things you don’t do.

The next day, you break up with Ben.

  
  


You miss the sex. A lot. Although Ben sex wasn’t as good as Dean sex, it was a hell of a lot more regular.

And Dean stays away longer than usual this time. Four months. You’re a couple days away from a stellar case of carpal tunnel when he just shows up at your door, face hard and broken. You know something’s wrong, but you let him inside without a word. This is your ritual.

For the first time, you don’t enjoy sex with Dean. It’s angry and scary, and although you trust him enough not to hurt you, you wonder if what you’re doing isn’t a bit dangerous. You know he doesn’t mean to hurt you, but he holds your wrists down a little too tight and pushes into you a little too hard.

There’s no dirty commentary, no words to work you up. He doesn’t say a word. Even when he pushes into you so hard that the condom breaks.

He just croaks _I’m sorry_ afterwards, before he disappears out your bedroom door.

A month and a half later, when the stick turns blue, you tell yourself you can’t do it this way and book your appointment.

  
  


Dean calls and leaves a message on your answering machine. You think he’s crying, but the thought of tears in his eyes is so foreign to you that you dismiss the idea almost immediately. He asks you to forgive him, not realizing that you already have.

He stays away again for a few months. You start wondering if he’s coming back at all - if he’s driven away from Durham by guilt and shame. You go on a few dates, but nothing really pans out; most are grad students and half of the time you feel guilty for not sharing their ambition. Part of you wonders if you should have gone to med school, but something tells you that you’d be incredibly unhappy. That same part asks you if that’s much different than how you feel right now.

You quit your job at the bank. Roberta gives you a little fern as a going away gift and you name it Connor. She also gives you her number in case you ever need to talk. You take it with a thank you.

You end up finding a comfortable job as a lab tech in the biology labs at Duke, grateful that the four years you spent slaving over lab reports and tissue samples have finally paid off. You work for Dr. Lusnick, who after a month gently suggests that you might want to consider graduate school, but for the first time in a long time, you are completely content with where you are in life.

So you wonder why you open the door for him that chilly November night when he shows up with a nervous smile and a bottle of tequila. No_ hello_, no _nice to see you_… just two sets of shoulders squared off. So you let him in without a word. This is your ritual.

When you wake up 12 hours later, you feel like you’ve been hit by a bus and you’re still drunk. You’re naked and you have a pretty new set of teeth prints in the side of your right breast. When you sit up and throw your legs over the side of the bed, you feel dizzy and waver before tilting forward to balance yourself. You feel something seeping inside you, dripping down your thighs. You reach between them and feel the stickiness.

_Oh fuck._

You pass out again. When you wake up, it’s dark and you don’t remember a thing.

  
  


You don’t know why you decide to keep it. A month after the missing November night, you feel a certain sense of sick déjà vu as you pee on a stick. And you know what it’s going to say before the pee hits it.

_Merry Fucking Christmas._

You cry for a week. You’re not quite sure why you’re crying, because you’re not really sad or upset, just scared - but in a bizarre, irrational way. You tell yourself that the smart thing to do is make another appointment, but you can’t bring yourself to do it, and you have no clue why. You feel like your hormones are already going fucking berserk.

You just flip the calendar to July and cross off a random date.

And then you fester.

It’s easy for the first two months – other than some slight nausea, you really don’t feel that different – when you look in the mirror, you can’t really tell that you’re pregnant. No big swollen belly, no puffy cheeks. When you hit three months and your body starts to swell and you’re barfing all the time, you know that you can’t live in denial anymore.

And you realize that morning sickness is going to be the easy part.

  
  


_This is Dean, leave a – touch the radio again, Sammy, and you’ll pull back a bloody stump – message._

_*beep*_

“…. I’m not quite sure how to do this. This isn’t exactly something that I do everyday. And you’d think you’d pick up your damn phone once in a blue moon, y’know?”

“So I’m pregnant.”

_*click*_

  
You don’t see or hear from him for three weeks. You assume he’s halfway to Canada.

Then he _just shows up at your door_. Like he was dropping in for a visit to say howdy. He doesn’t really say anything when you open the door, just stares at the little bump peeking out of your button up pyjama top. His face is completely unreadable and you feel a sickness swirling in your little gut.

He doesn’t explode; doesn’t ask you if you were fucking someone else, if there’s a chance it’s _not his_, if you want to keep it or get rid of it. He just goes into the kitchen and asks you if you’d like some tea.

You’re struck by the realization that you don’t know Dean Winchester **_at all._**


End file.
